


Valentine

by fortheloveoflestrade



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Post sign of three, because i'm trash, sort-of case fic, stupid thing for valentine's day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 12:06:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3173320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fortheloveoflestrade/pseuds/fortheloveoflestrade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Painted in blood on the wall is a message that reads: I’M SENDING YOU A VALENTINE, MR. HOLMES.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Valentine

Sherlock was just finishing an experiment when his mobile began to ring in the living room. As he was in the kitchen, and somewhat occupied at the moment, he called out. “John, my phone!”

There was no response.

“John?” he tries again.

And, again, nothing.

It’s then he realizes that John no longer lives in 221B Baker Street. He hasn’t for quite some time, as he is now married and his wife, Mary, is pregnant. 

Sighing heavily, Sherlock puts down the cow’s heart he was holding and angrily removes his gloves. The mobile continues to ring at him.

He answers, annoyed, “Yes, what do you want?”

“Sherlock?” Lestrade buzzes back. “We’ve got a case. You need to get down here.”

“I’m rather busy at the moment,” he lies, “I’m afraid I can’t be interrupted.”

There’s a pause and a faint tapping. “I’ve just sent you a photo of the crime scene and the address. I suggest you take a look.” And then he’s hung up.

Interesting, Sherlock thinks.

He navigates to his messages and sees the address texted to him. It’s nothing extraordinary, just a residential address on the other side of town. But then he opens the picture.

And two seconds later, he’s out the door.

\---

He’d phoned John from the cab, and still John managed to beat him there. His suburban life must not have been too pressing at the moment.

“So, what have we got?” John asks, falling into step beside Sherlock. It feels good, being here with him, John thinks. 

Sherlock had been thinking something similar in not so many words. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

He lifts the crime scene tape for John to duck under, which he then does himself. They see Sally and Lestrade quietly discussing something; Sally spots them first, pointing for Lestrade to turn around.

“Oh, thank God you’re both here,” he sighs, rubbing roughly at his three-day scruff.

Sally greets them both with a simple nod of her head. John appreciated the civility she’d adopted since Sherlock’s return, especially considering she’d sort of had a hand in his having to disappear.

“So, any ideas yet?” Lestrade asks.

“We’ve not even been inside,” John says.

“I sent Sherlock a picture,” Lestrade explains.

“I still need to see the crime scene before I make any deductions,” Sherlock says. “A photo does the evidence no justice, I find.”

“Why did you have to send him a picture?” John asks the Detective Inspector. “Doesn’t Sherlock usually jump at a murder?”

“Said he was ‘busy’,” Lestrade answers. “And once you see it, you’ll see why I did.”

They continued inside the house.

\---

“Oh my God,” John whispers when they get inside.

The place is torn apart, destroyed almost beyond recognition that it once was a home. Photos of the family are shattered and tossed to the ground, the furniture is cut open and its stuffing is ripped halfway out, and right in the middle of a Persian rug is a body, stretched out like it was trying to crawl away. 

In the dead man’s hand is something deep red and glistening wet, suspiciously intact compared to its surroundings.

A human heart.

John looks around the room, confused. He finds Sherlock staring at the south wall.

“Sherlock, what is it?”

John walks up beside Sherlock and realizes what Lestrade meant.

Painted in blood on the wall is a message that reads: I’M SENDING YOU A VALENTINE, MR. HOLMES.

\---

“Is it him?” is the first thing John thinks to ask.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock answers. And that’s the only thing that could’ve made John feel worse than if he’d just said “Yes.”

John turns away from the rude thing written on the wall, making him sick. He instead goes to the body, his ‘area’ as Sherlock once put it, pulls on his gloves and starts working.

He’s careful not to disturb much as he lifts the body to look underneath. “I’m going to go out on a limb and say the heart belongs to the victim. It also looks to be cause of death—these wounds look anti-mortem.”

“You mean the heart was cut out while the man was still alive?” Lestrade asks.

“Unfortunately,” John agrees.

“He’s not a resident of this house,” Sherlock says to them, only just turning away from the message on the wall. “All of the photographs, he isn’t in a single one of them.”

“Then who is he?” John asks, still kneeling on the rug beside the body.

“James Carlyle, forty-six,” Sally answers, flipping open her notepad. “We found an ID on the body before you got here. No priors, not even a parking ticket. Not married, no relatives except a great-aunt who lives in America. His parents were American, but he was born here. He lives on the other side of London. No apparent connection to the family that lives here.”

“Then what’s he doing here?” John asks.

“No idea,” Lestrade sighs. “But the people who live here, the Darren’s, they’re nowhere to be found. We’ve tried both Mr. and Mrs. Darren’s mobiles, and their workplaces, and neither of them have been in. Their son didn’t show up for school, either. We’re working on getting ahold of their daughter, who’s at university in Cardiff.”

“You’ll not find her, either,” Sherlock says, picking up a piece of paper from the floor. It had been buried beneath debris, but of course he’d find it. He’d been meant to. He reads, “We have Elizabeth. Bring three million pounds to 74 Cornish Street, London, at midnight, or she dies.”

“74 Cornish Street? That’s Carlyle’s address,” Sally interjects.

“Well, there’s your connection. Carlyle’s your kidnapper,” John says. He looks to Sherlock, who’s still intently studying the letter. “Or not,” he amends. “Sherlock?”

“How long would you say he’s been dead?” Sherlock asks.

John glances back down at the body. “Well, it’s a guess without an autopsy,” John says. “Probably nine or ten hours.”

“Which puts time of death before midnight,” Lestrade adds.

“And would you say he was murdered here?” Sherlock continues.

John lifts the body again, then checks under the collar of the dead man. “Too little blood, and lividity says he died on his back. Probably moved here after,” John concedes. “So not our kidnapper.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock hums an agreement. 

“We should get him to Molly at Bart’s for a full post-mortem assessment,” John says, standing up. He pulls off his gloves, carefully turning them inside out and folding them inside themselves, so as not to transfer any of the blood.

After the body’s moved out by the coroner, Sherlock does an agonizingly slow walk around the room, occasionally stooping to push around some debris with a gloved finger. John follows several feet behind so as not to crowd him, but still close in case he’s needed.

Sherlock unconsciously moves slower to force John a little closer, but John’s too polite, too insistent on giving him ‘room to work’.

The rest of the home goes much quicker, as there is no damage and seemingly no evidence.

“I’m done here,” Sherlock says, unceremoniously pulling off his gloves and flinging them into a nearby rubbish bin. He turns to John. “Molly should be done with the body in at least an hour—two if there were any other significant deaths in the last twelve hours. Shall we go and eat?”

\---

Sherlock graciously obliged when John asked to invite Mary—well, he didn’t object. He actually didn’t say anything, and John didn’t really ask, he just kind of…did.

Mary arrived at Angelo’s shortly after they had sat down at their usual table. As she waddled over from the door, John anticipated her and pulled up another chair.

“Hello, dear,” John greets her, kissing her on the cheek.

“Hi,” she sighs, lowering herself carefully into her seat. “Sherlock, good to see you.”

“You’re two weeks from your due date?” he asks.

“Eleven days,” John and Mary say together.

Sherlock looks between the two of them. “And how are you doing?” he asks.

Mary gives him a look, one that says I-know-you-know-how-I’m-bloody-doing-you-prat, but she gives a pained smile nonetheless and says, “I’m okay. A bit restless, as I’m sure John’s told you.”

“No, he hasn’t said anything of the sort,” Sherlock replies. “Did mention that you snore a bit.”

John coughs uncomfortably. “Thanks for that,” he mutters.

Mary just laughs. Actually, a little too much. By the time she’s finished having a laugh, they’ve both joined in and she’s wiping the tears from the corner of her eye.

“Oh, God, I’m so done being pregnant,” she half-chuckles, half-sobs.

John raises an arm and rubs circles into her back. She closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them again.

“So, food now? Jesus, I could eat a horse.”

\---

After they’ve sent Mary on her way back home, they head straight for Bart’s. Molly is there waiting for them, looking a little impatient, even.

“So, where’ve you two been?” she asks in forced politeness.

“We, uh, just went to lunch with Mary,” John says.

“Oh,” she replies, slightly embarrassed. “How is she?”

“Very pregnant,” Sherlock answers, stretching out his words. “And, apparently, a snorer.”

“Shut up,” John chuckles.

Sherlock wanders toward the body, and John holds out a plastic bag to the pathologist. “Brought you a little something for later,” he whispers.

She smiles. “Thanks.”

He places it on the counter and they meet Sherlock over at the examining table. “So, your initial assessment wasn’t inaccurate, John. Time of death was somewhere between 10:30 and 11:30 last night. But here’s something interesting—the heart doesn’t belong to the victim.”

“It doesn’t?” John asks.

“Of course not,” Sherlock mutters quietly.

“And, neither does the blood from the message on the wall. Nasty thing, that is. And on St. Valentine’s day,” she adds.

“I rather think that was the point,” Sherlock interrupts.

“Well, who do they belong to, then?” John asks.

Molly opens her report. “The heart, I’ve no idea. Didn’t match any DNA taken from the house or the victim. But the blood on the wall matches samples from both Mr. and Mrs. Darren’s toothbrushes. Not a lethal amount.”

“And, based on some of the material from the house, the murderer-slash-kidnapper forced them to write it out in their own blood,” Sherlock continues. 

“Poor people,” Molly murmurs.

“Indeed,” Sherlock says half-heartedly. “John?”

“What?”

“You neglected to admit that you knew Mrs. Darren,” he says.

Both he and Molly are taken aback.

“What do you mean, Sherlock?”

“There was a prescription with your name on it in the Darren home.”

“Well, I write a dozen scrips a day, Sherlock. You can’t expect me to remember every single one.”

“It was written a week ago. For an anti-depressant.”

“Sherlock—”

He’s interrupted by a ringing phone. Molly picks it up. “Molly Hooper,” she answers.

She listens for a moment, and then her eyes jump to John and Sherlock. “Yes,” she whispers. “I’ll tell them.” She hangs up the phone, all the color gone from her face.

“Molly, are you alright?” John asks. Sherlock studies her face.

“That was for you,” she says, her eyes empty and her voice wavering. “It was Jim—I mean Moriarty—and he says to tell you that his next Valentine is waiting for you at Carlyle’s.”

And then she faints.


End file.
